


Garlands for the Conqueror

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Genre: Depression, Hurt, M/M, Movie Reference, PTSD, Spoilers, Unhappiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the capture of Damascus, Lawrence departs from Arabia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garlands for the Conqueror

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: I'm posting some of my older stories since I no longer have a website. The bulk of my Lawrence stories I wrote in 2003-4. My writing has improved since then.
> 
> Note 2: This story mentions a rape, which happens in the movie.

Lawrence jumped as the whistle sounded; the ship was about to leave. Lawrence looked for one last time towards the desert, its purity marred by the scarring effects of the British army.

He retreated into his cabin, a private cabin. He set his case down on the bed, and opened it. Beside the clean, pressed khaki were the few remaining relics of his Arabian adventure: dirt-streaked, blood-stained white robes, still trimmed with gold cord, and accented with delicate embroidery; a sweat-darkened kuffiyeh and gold agal; a heavy, newly cleaned dagger; a pair of wore sandals.

The most important was a garland, preserved by drying but eaten away by time and the elements. Lawrence had worked hard to preserve this item. Ali had given it to him.

“Garlands for the conqueror,” Ali had said so long ago.

Ali had given him flowers, face filled with such happiness, and Lawrence had fought not to blush. He had denied it then, yet Ali’s foreign emotions had filled him with equal fervor. 

“My god, I love this country,” he had said. Ali was of this country, and it had occurred to Lawrence then that he loved Ali just as much.

One day, long ago, he asked his father why he had left his baronetcy and his ancestral power to live with a woman he could not marry.

“I loved her,” his father replied before he took another swig of scotch. “And I still do.”

Lawrence wrinkled his nose in distaste, whether from the mention of love or the smell of the alcohol, neither one was sure.

“One of these days you’ll understand, my boy,” his father continued.

“I hope I shan’t, father,” Lawrence said, fingers nervously twitching at the hem of his jacket.

“Maybe… I hope you don’t either,” his father replied, after another meditative sip.

The fraternal resentment towards their father over the loss of their familial name and heritage was never more evident than from Lawrence, to whom the replacement title of bastard was a constant wound. To be faster, better, more intelligent, or any other achievement was nothing when compared to that diminutive name.

Young Lawrence had filled his imagination with stories of noble knights who searched for valuable objects and rescued the worthy from the wrath of evil. He had wanted to be the hero who was looked up to by people, whose brave deeds would be written of for centuries to come.

Once again shocked out of his reverie by the ship’s horn, Lawrence found himself standing in the middle of his room, smiling slightly and rubbing one of the rough leaves between his thumb and index finger. His mind was filled with the sensation of Ali’s calloused hands on his own, leading him to their secluded tent, wrapping the garland around Lawrence’s wrists - a symbolic bondage - and making love to him.

Suddenly Lawrence tossed the garland onto his bed.

Lawrence had no need for a reminder. Last night, when Ali had returned to him, pushing him down against the table, Lawrence had given what he could to his lover even when Ali’s touch filled him with dread. As Ali pounded into his body, bile burned the back of his throat. Lawrence could do anything but look at him. He kept his eyes closed until he heard Ali’s fading footsteps. He felt tears against his cheeks, but could not remember shedding them. In the distance he could hear someone’s muffled grief.

Lawrence was leaving his adopted country, his native friends, and his earned title. He was not the conquering hero, the knight errant. He was illegitimate. He had no name, no power, and no heritage apart from his bloody battle for freedom and his desire to hide.

 

The port of Aqaba was a spot in the distance when a dried, brittle garland joined the water, tossed by the man who had rescued it two years ago.


End file.
